


Lavinia, Lavinia

by januarywren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Breeding, Breeding Kink, Creature Hermione Granger, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Eaters, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lactation Kink, Manipulation, Master/Pet, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Obedience, Obsession, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Omega Hermione Granger, Oral Sex, Polyjuice Potion, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Possessive Tom Riddle, Pregnancy, Psuedo bestality, Shameless Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Tomione Smut Fest 2019, Unhealthy Relationships, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21613156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarywren/pseuds/januarywren
Summary: In an alley near Borgin and Burkes, Tom finds the one meant to be his; suffering from the effects of an illegal potion, and helpless to resist him. Cruelly entranced, he decides to keep her.Submission for Tomione Smut Fest 2k19 | Stolkholm Syndrome, AU
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 50
Kudos: 610
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2019





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sliding in right before the deadline - 
> 
> I'm really, really grateful that I was able to finish this on time. :) My health took a nosedive in the past week, and I've been struggling to play catch up. Initially, I signed up for the prompt 'pregnant sex' and had a breeding/established relationship idea for Lavinia, Lavinia...
> 
> I wanted something soft and sweet, without making Tom someone he'll never be. Having him admit that he missed Hermione seemed like a stretch, though with their dynamic, it _could_ happen. Tom seems like he's honest with himself - he lies to everyone else because he sees no reason in allowing anyone close. Hermione would be different, I think, someone he would let in, even if he told himself it was only to use her. (Unless I'm completely off the mark, and I apologize for that!). This story was difficult for me, though I enjoyed writing it enormously, and Meggie, the admin of the fest, is an absolute sweetheart. 💜🖤
> 
> Lavinia, Lavinia grew plot wings (albeit small ones) and the story flew i a slightly different direction, making the story more Stockholm than anything. Though, who is falling harder for the other, I couldn't say. 
> 
> A one-shot, for now, I may add another chapter later. (I will). 🖤
> 
> PS: Now updated with a second chapter, and adjusted the tags accordingly! The child abuse tag does *not* apply to Tom and Hermione's children - it applies to Tom's childhood at the orphanage.

The door closed behind him, the lock sliding into place.

  
  
Down the hall, the grandfather clock rang.

  
  
And Tom waited - a figure blazed down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and cried his name. “Tom!”

  
  
He caught her easily, his little waif, and lifted her high to hold her against him. She rubbed her cheek against his collar, before covering his face with little kisses and nips. “Tom!” she exclaimed, licking the end of his nose. “You’re home!”

  
  
_Home_.

  
  
It was a word that never failed to send a thrill through him.

  
  
The concept was one he’d sneered at, ever since he was a child, and his home had been the wretched orphanage. He’d watched at the window as others were adopted and led from the rotting doors to the iron gate where their family waited. If they happened to have snakes curl around their feet, and squeeze until their ankles shattered, what did it matter? Tom was on one side, while they were free to another.

  
  
“Tom?” her hand cradled his cheek, as she watched him.

  
  
“I’m here, sweet one," he replied, before rubbing his nose against hers. He knew she adored it, the Eskimo kisses they gave each other, and his lips curved upward as he felt slick gush against his clothed thigh. 

  
  
Truthfully, she was the only person he ached not to fear him.

  
  
Ever since he’d chanced by a scummy alley near Borgin and Burkes, and heard her pained cries, he’d been intrigued by her, his curious girl. He’d found her with a blanket pressed against her abdomen, and her tail thrusting between her legs. Tears had streamed down her cheeks as she looked up at him; her lips swollen, and her fluffy ears pinned back. He’d gleaned - from a tumble of rushed thoughts - that she was a little wizard lost, one who’d tried her hand at studying things she shouldn’t. Highly illegal things, ones that made him smirk.

  
  
“ _Tut, tut_ ,” Tom teased her, feeling little sympathy for her bleary eyes, and weakened frantic pants. “ _Polyjuice mishap? Naughty girl.”_

  
  
The potion had been banned by the Ministry for over forty years, though he’d found the instructions for it amidst Salazar’s notes. It seemed the Founders had regularly played their own sadistic games, Rowena breaking Helga’s heart more than once, by destroying her relationship with Salazar with the aid of Polyjuice. Tom had his own heavily warded stock of the potion, and knew it well, though he’d never seen a mishap like this before. Her thoughts had turned positively feline, as she rubbed her thighs together, and heat flared inside her. She’d lived long enough as a pseudo cat to fall into heat, and was open season for any passing wizard.

  
  
“ _D-Don’t_ ,” she croaked, “ _Don’t collar me, p-please_.”

  
  
“ _Oh darling_ ,” he’d purred, “ _You’ll ask me to_.”

  
  
He’d smelled her arousal and felt with his fingers the slick that pooled between her legs. She’d been helpless to stop him, mewling as he knelt beside her, and covered her body with his own. He felt drawn to her; magic crackling around them as he pulled her flush against him. She was filthy, yes, staining his robes with soot, yet he fingered her dripping cunt regardless. He knew he could have done anything to her, and she would have begged for more.

  
  
Perhaps it was then, he became enamored of her.

  
He'd fucked her until she rode his hand without regard of anyone who passed, mewling pitifully, and grinding against his palm. He'd felt himself harden, and wanted to take her, and he had - he'd taken her to work with him, ensuring that she was quiet by keeping her under the counter, and letting her suckle on his cock. She'd given him the best head he'd ever had; her mouth sopping wet, and warm, as she'd laved on his cock as if she'd wanted for nothing else. He'd buried his hand in her hair and gripped the counter with his other until he left grooves in the wood. She'd taken him like a kitten licking cream and had swallowed all of his releases; until he withdrew from her mouth, and covered her face, and her chest in reams of his seed.

  
  
Afterward, when his work was done, he’d taken her home with him.

  
  
“ _You were made for me_ ,” he’d crooned, and felt a tenderness towards her that he’d never felt toward anyone else. She was nothing like the girls he’d let fuck him at Hogwarts, often letting himself be pressed into a broom closet, and given head. He’d kept them discreet, meaningless affairs; pureblood girls who would be indebted to him, as he claimed their virginity. The others around him; purebloods like Abraxas or Avery thought they understood him, giving him sly smiles if he had a girl on his arm.

  
  
Yet they understood nothing, no, none of them had.

  
  
He had designs for the world, starting with his own life as he designed plans to visit Albania.

  
  
He’d found she was his match, the one made for him by the gods themselves, as she watched him murder his father. Oh, she was an innocent, with her hand pressed against her mouth, and tears streaming down her cheeks. Yet she hadn’t run, no, she’d flung herself into his arms after it was done and covered his face in kisses. “ _Please, Tom_!” she’d cried, and he’d been taken aback at the care in her tone. “ _Don’t leave me_ -“

  
  
She’d known then, what he was doing, the Horcruxes he was making.

  
  
She was smarter than he wished her to be, his sweet kit, and he collared her as his own. His initials marked her collar, the same as they did his diary, and he kept he leash wrapped around his hand when he fucked her. She understood without saying what he needed, baring her neck to him as if he were her better. And he knew that he was, though a part of him still opened his work to her, allowing her to cradle his books and study beside him while he brewed potions. He rarely ordered them, preferring to brew them himself, and shared his processes with her.

  
  
He knew how she wanted to learn, how she longed for knowledge and had a burning thirst for it. Her mind was always reeling, and he frequently amused himself by allowing her to work on problems with him and discussed magical theory with her. She had a wand after he'd purchased several wands for her, and brought them for her to see. The one that called to her was made from vine wood with a dragon heartstring core, coming as little surprise to him. He knew there was a powerful potential that burned inside her; one that he could stimulate and encourage under his tutoring. Her peals of laughter after casting a Patronus made him happier than he'd ever admit, instead, he busied himself with teaching her more; regardless of whether the spells were dark or light.

  
  
Though the Unforgivables were ones he hadn’t broached with her yet.

  
  
He liked the light in her eyes still as if she were a warmth that only he could covet. Ever since he’d made his first Horcrux, he’d felt a coldness in his fingers; a loss of sensation that he couldn’t put a name to. He felt less and more all at once, as if he were less than man, and more than man all at once. She was a missing part of himself, one that he was silly enough to believe in, and he knew he would never let her go. As it was, he hardly let her past the front door, keeping her in a world of their own, their home.

  
  
It _did_ things to him, knowing she was in his rooms, and wearing his robes. He’d had robes tailored for her by a discreet seamstress, alongside ordering her muggle jumpers, blouses, and skirts that she frequently wore. Still, there were times when she greeted him in the morning, wearing nothing but his robes, or one of his dress shirts that pooled over her thighs, and lacy knickers beneath. The sight made him want to snog her senseless, something he frequently did, before hoisting her up and against him. She was always warm and responsive, twisting in his hold, and whimpering his name. “ _More, Tom_!” she’d beg as he buried his cock inside her. “ _I want to feel you - all of you,_ please -“

  
  
He responded in turn, splashing his seed over her legs, and burying his groans against her shoulder. “ _Hermione_ ,” he’d murmur, the same as if he were uttering a sacred spell. “ _I want it all_ ; _your body, your soul, your beautiful cunt, - everything you have and everything you will, darling.”_

  
  
There were times when she accompanied him when he led meetings among his followers. There was a perverse delight in having Hermione sit in his lap, while he fed her by hand, and watch Abraxas writhe on the floor as he was _Crucio’d_. Tom knew his thoughts, and how he sneered at his Lord’s creature.

  
  
There were things he wouldn’t permit his followers, the demeaning of Hermione among them. “ _She is your Lady_ ,” Tom had told them coolly, while his hand rested on the back of his pet’s neck. She wore his leather collar proudly, the soft leather never chafing her skin. It was charmed to allow only him to take it off, and he rarely did; gleaning pleasure from the sight of it. She was his, as he was blessedly hers. “ _Your Lady, as I am your Dark Lord_.”

  
  
They’d followed his wishes then.

  
  
And his kitten, his sweet girl, had paid them little attention; focused on the grapes he held in his fingers instead. She took them intently from him, nipping at his fingers when he held them away from her. He smirked when juice ran down her chin, and she licked at his fingers, before twisting in his lap to snog him soundly. Her taste was sweet, their kisses harsh as her tongue tangled with his, and she pressed her small body against him. She mewled in delight as he fisted his hands in her hair, and she felt his hardness against her thigh. He’d fucked her amidst his court before, teasing her with his fingers until she rocked her hips against his hand, and urged him deeper. She focused only on him; aware of his followers yet had little time for them - they could not please her, not as Tom could.

  
  
“ _Please_ ,” she’d asked, so sweetly. “ _Let me cum, please_ -“

  
  
He’d edged her for hours before, teasing her puffy lips with his fingers until she shrieked in ecstatic frustration. It was a sight for his followers, as they saw the revelry; forced to follow their Lord’s wishes to not touch her. No, she could never be touched, as she begged for release, and Voldemort continued with their meeting. He spoke to his followers in cool, exact tones as he toyed with his kitten; letting her slick trickle on to his robes, as he spoke.

  
  
“ _Voldemort_ ,” she’d finally beg, breathless as he curved his fingers inside her. He reveled in her slickness, and the sound of his fingers thrusting into her slickness. She was desperate for him, and his attentions, squirming and mewling in his lap as if she _truly_ were a wild cat. “ _V-Voldemort, please! Please_!”

  
  
She had a greedy nature, whether it was for the sweets he held or the knowledge he knew. It was something Tom reveled in, whether he indulged or denied her, feeling a rush of pleasure every time, he toyed with her.

  
  
Yet amidst their home, there was one indulgence he was happy to give.

  
  
He'd indulged her by laying his head on her lap and drinking from her aching breasts as if he were her helpless offspring. Her breasts were filled with milk; creamy and sweet, and he nuzzled her breast as he suckled, unrelenting in his hunger. She needed releases often, Tom allowing her to wake him in the night when milk stained her nightgown and ran down the flat of her stomach.

  
  
He liked the feel of her fingers as she combed them through his hair and whispered silly, inconsequential things to him. “ _I never had a mother_ ,” he told her once, a confession that he’d told no one else, except, perhaps his diary. “ _Or a father_. _I was a hated orphan, one who was never taken away to paradise._ ” There was a mocking note to his voice, one that was brittle and false.

  
  
He would have given anything, once, when he was a foolish boy to have a family.

  
  
The closest he’d felt, before Hermione, was the time he spent in the Chamber of Secrets. He’d found Salazar’s presence, a welcoming, and studious one that had wrapped around him like a vise. He’d lost himself in his studies, practicing magic without regarding whether it was light or dark. The Basilisk had recognized him as one of Slytherin’s own and had conversed with him in parseltongue as lonely as he was.

  
  
And when Tom had asked it to feast on the Gryffindors? It’d been pleased to oblige, flicking its long, forked tongue over him in thanks, before slithering away. It’d been starving, just like him; starving for bones crunching between its teeth, and warm blood trickling down its throat, the same as he’d ached to belong. Dumbledore had little love for him, nor the other Slytherins until his bloodline had been unveiled. There were slights never forgotten, hurts that he would always remember, placed as they were behind a veneer of charm and a handsome smile.

  
  
“ _I had both_ ,” she replied, her fingers moving still. “ _They were relieved, I think, when I was called to Hogwarts._ _They didn’t understand my abilities_.”

  
  
“ _They never would have_ ,” Tom said, and they both knew it was true.

  
  
She was softer, and sweeter after he’d made her dreams of pregnancy come true.

  
  
He had given thought to breeding her; knowing how she mewled for his cock and begged to be filled. Tom could picture it - too easy, really - the swell of her belly, and sweet milk flowing from her. He saw their children in haunting dreams, a girl with her wild curls, and his dark eyes, alongside a son with his sneer, and her warm coloring. He came to ache for the dream to be real, though he never voiced it openly to her.

  
No, he went without casting the contraception spell instead and burrowed himself inside her with abandon. He let her heat proceed, and adored the sight of her above him, riding on his cock, with her head tossed back and whimpers coming from her. He drove himself to make her scream his name and rake her nails down his back; cuts that he never let heal. He had little need for another, content with the beauty above him.

  
  
And beneath him, as he covered her body with his own, and took her until she screamed his name and soaked his cock with her sweet release. She was unrepentant about it; the feral instincts that remained wanting to mark him as her own, in whatever way she could. The sheets were ruined after he took her, covered in her release, and the seed that dripped from her. He loved to cover her with his cum, covering her chest with ropes of his warm, sticky cum, as well as her face. She licked it off herself, before kissing him soundly; an indulgence he permitted her without thinking.

  
  
"Tom," he heard her voice in her ear and the warmth of her breath against his neck. She nestled against him as if she had the right to nest into the curve of his arms and press her breasts against his chest. "I missed you," she said, and his hand moved to cradle the swell of her belly. She was due in the winter, a thought that was no less terrifying to him than death was, as loath as he was to admit it.

  
  
"I'm here," he told her, the matter with the Potters taking less time than he'd expected. There were three fewer Gryffindors in the world, as undoubtedly their unborn child would have been. The bloody revel that had occurred afterward had been electric for his followers, as they’d coupled beneath the moonlight, and Bellatrix had screamed with manic laughter at the burning Potter Manor. It was a brutal stance against the Order, as Dumbledore had formed a league against his prior student, a feat that Tom treated as an enormous joke. His professor had always spurned giving him attention, yet made him the focus of his thoughts now.

  
  
Tom had felt distracted, his thoughts immersed with his pet, his little queen, and he'd felt restless with energy. He hadn't wanted to be amidst the revel, not without Hermione beside him, and had _Crucio’d_ a newly turned werewolf, turning his wand on Greyback when the creature had snarled in protest. “I won’t leave you again,” he promised her, and knew he meant the words, “not until the spring, Hermione.”

  
  
Her tail wrapped around his thigh, and he smiled crookedly at the feeling. The Polyjuice had never worn off, her cat ears and tail remaining; though she acted more like a woman than a domestic feline. Still, he chuckled when he found her curled in the window seat, watching the birds outside while dozing in-between. She liked a splash of warm milk with her tea too, though she wrinkled her nose at the smell of fish and had little inkling to play with a ball of yarn. Tom knew all of this about her, sometimes wondering if he knew more about her than he did himself.

  
  
It was a disturbing thought, one that made him flinch.

  
  
If he could hate her, he would.

  
  
Yet even if he hated her, Tom knew that he would keep her, as she was the only one who was his equal. She'd entranced him since the moment he met her, and like all things that intrigued him, he kept her as his own. It was in the months after she'd settled into his home, that he'd found himself covering her with his coat while she fell asleep at the kitchen table, and transfigured a brush to run through her matted curls. He'd taken her in, clothed and fed her, and fucked her every night as if he were a Hufflepuff, for he knew there was nothing behind it.

  
He couldn't use her, not as he used others when she saw no one but him.

  
  
She went nowhere without him, though he allowed her to separate from him during their trips into muggle London, when she buried herself in a pile of books, and burned her tongue on hot coffee, while he visited a friendly pharmacist. There were indulgences unknown to the wizarding world, painkillers that would touch what the Healers wouldn’t - couldn’t - fathom treating. The indulgences, in their little, paper packets had paved his way into every pocket in the Ministry. He collected her after, her feline attributes well glamoured, before Apparating back to their home.

  
  
And it was a home after they'd moved from the drafty, tiny apartment he'd rented, shortly after he'd found her. They'd moved to a cottage instead, one with a Floo to the Ministry, and every pureblood manor in the country. It had a grim front that hid a warm interior; one with a roaring fire in every room, and a library that was set to rival Hogwarts's. There in his study, Tom practiced the Dark Arts and had little inclination to hide it from her. Hermione often watched him while curled in a leather chair, with a great tome resting on her knee, and chewed on her fingernail. Her mind never stopped, he knew, her thoughts always spinning the same as his.

  
  
They both thought of the heir she was blooming with, the child that was tucked away in her womb. Tom wasn’t like the pureblood lords that followed him and demanded sons from their wives. He sneered at the birth announcements, and Abraxas who heralded his son, Lucius, as the rising sun - didn’t Abraxas realize it made him the setting sun? Heirs were the symbol of death, their very status resting on their pending succession. He’d had no wish for an heir, a family, a home. Yet Hermione had given him all of them.

  
  
“I…missed you too.”

  
  
The words were without grace, as he admitted them.

  
  
He sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  
  
Gently she combed her fingers through his hair and studied him with her warm gaze. It was one he wouldn’t meet, as he pressed his cheek against her curved belly, and said nothing. It hurt him, sometimes, when she gazed at him with nothing but _love_.

  
  
She’d never said the words aloud, though he knew from her thoughts what she felt. She had no power to hide her thoughts from him, nor the inclination as she often left her soul open for him. He shared his thoughts in kind, though he held things from her; fears of failure and his death, as well as the day that he felt the same as she did.

  
  
_Love_ -

  
  
Love was his weakness, love was his fear.

  
  
He shuddered then, tightening his arms around her; even as he heard her sharply inhale. She turned him inside out, and he waited for her to flay him alive, something she was seemingly loath to do.

  
  
_Why?_

  
  
He would hurt her if he could.

  
  
He would.

  
  
“Shh,” Hermione murmured, scratching his scalp with her nails. “I know, Tom. I know.”

  
  
He closed his eyes at the feeling, shivering in delight at the comfort he’d never known. It was the same warm, tingly feeling that he felt when she let him rest his head in her lap and suckle from her. Afterward, she'd lap the milk that'd run down his chin, until she was licking the whole of him, and giving him a bath with her tongue. He felt it too, when he fucked her slowly, feeling every curve and inner fold as he buried himself inside her, and she pressed her face against his neck. It was a tightening of his chest and breathless awe that he turned his thoughts from.

  
  
It was a feeling he never wanted to let go of.

  
  
He wanted to possess it, turning it into his own, and never letting anyone hold it. It careened out of reach when he fucked her harshly, bouncing her on his cock, and holding her head back until she cried. He licked the tears from her cheeks, tasting the salt on her skin, yet felt nothing in his chest, besides pleasure. It was a feeling he chased and wanted to make his own, yet -

  
  
It was shared between them, its thread wrapped around their hearts. It was the one part of himself he couldn’t rid, no matter how he split his soul. He’d followed every withered book, and precisely sacrificed the parts of himself that made him live, though his heart would beat without stilling. As Tom or as Voldemort, his heart would live without end, as would Hermione’s - he planned a Horcrux for her too, seeing no reason to allow her to leave him. 

  
  
It was everything he’d sneered at and cast from himself, as he steeled himself to survive at the orphanage, and became the man that he was at Hogwarts. He knew that he was cruel and charismatic, someone that others lusted for, and worshipped from fear. He knew all of his shadows and the cracks in his heart. He wasn't a man that was wanted from affection - he wasn’t a man that was loved.

  
  
“You know that I’ll hurt you,” Tom said slowly.

  
  
It was an inevitable truth, one that neither could profess to be a lie.

  
  
Her hands moved to cradle his face, tilting it up towards her. Her caramel-colored eyes were warm where they met his, pulling him up toward her. "I know," Hermione replied simply. There was none of Bellatrix’s falsity with her or the crooning tones of his pureblood followers.

  
  
She was Hermione, simple and bright, and it hurt him all the more that she was light. She was one who couldn’t drag into the darkness, as he’d coiled his soil; but she suspended herself in the grey, a dim light burning in her. It was enough for him to recoil, the same as if she’d been a Dementor, one that threw his mortality in his face. He sneered, a cruel twist of his lips that marred his handsome face.

  
  
“You’ll forgive me then?” he asked. “Because you _love_ me -“

  
  
"Yes," she interrupted him. "I will, Tom if you regret it when you hurt me. If you're sorry when you hurt me, I'll forgive you." slowly she rested her forehead against his, her tone filled with an earnestness he couldn't hide from. “I’ll love you then, as I love you now.”

  
  
_Why?_

  
  
Her index finger pressed against his lip.

  
  
“It’s my choice, Tom,” she murmured. “You own my heart, just as you own my soul, but my thoughts and my feelings are my own. My words -“ her finger dragged across the outline of his lips, his teeth catching her skin. He nibbled on her finger, his teeth leaving reddened marks behind. She tasted like fresh cherries and honeyed springtime, a sweetness that he’d never known before. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  
  
And in his gaze, she saw everything he couldn’t - wouldn’t say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Simon, Pateu, and Leon, thank you! 🦝🖤


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom doesn't love Hermione.
> 
> He doesn't.
> 
> (He does).
> 
> PS: Yes, I used *that* quote from Labyrinth. Jareth/Sarah is the embodiment of the Hades/Persephone trope (one that I'm utterly and always weak for - if you couldn't tell already by my love for Kylo/Rey, Death Eaters/Hermione, Phantom/Christine, etc... 🖤)

"Tom!" Hermione exclaimed, mirth in her voice. He nuzzled her breast, disregarding the droplets of milk that splashed on his cheek. "We'll have _hordes_ of children if we continue like this -"

She hadn't missed the curve of his smile, or the way he kissed her breast. He caught her nipple with his teeth, tugging at it until her cheeks brightened to a lovely pink shade. Heat thrummed in her body, and her tail moved to the nape of his neck, resting there.

He’d learned to admire the feel of it.

Of every touch, every part of her.

Her fingers wound in his dark curls, and she nibbled at her lip as he blew against her nipple. It perked beneath his attention, and she felt a flare of arousal. It was the same heady feeling as when he’d drizzled elf-made wine upon her and worshipped her at the table. She’d been unable to get away from his greedy mouth, his teasing fingers, and the worshipful way he’d whispered her name - she’d felt the fire then, crackling and burning inside her.

It was one that only he could soothe.

"Tom," she murmured, and he kissed her rosy nipple; both of them knowing they could deny the other little. If he were a different man, she would have said he was enamored with her, acting like a man in a silly romance novel that she'd read. It wasn't that he proclaimed his love and left roses on her pillow, but the urgency when he kissed her as if she would slip from him. "I'm here."

As he’d been for her.

In the weeks before her due date, she'd been nervous, frightful even as she made and remade a nest in their bed, before retreating to her kennel. Tom had found her thereafter he came from a Ministry function, and he had shed his dark robes, before crawling in beside her. He'd crooned things to her, combing her knotted hair with his fingers before coaxing her to lay with him.

Neither of them had seen anyone but the house elves and an occasional owl that waited by the bedroom window with a ream of parchment in its beak. He read letters to her while they took slow walks in the garden and he rubbed her feet after. He had been patient after she refused to leave their bedroom and fussed with the nest until she panted and whispered that the baby was coming.

It had only been her mate and three house-elves that attended her, the birth of their daughter entirely private. It wasn’t as if Tom had planned to take her to St. Mungo’s, having kept Hermione from all but his followers. He’d known that he could call on a nursemaid, one that had assisted with pureblood births, yet had hesitated at doing so; when Hermione had cringed at the thought of another being with them.

“ _I just want you_ ,” she’d told him, “ _Just you, Tom_.”

Her earnest tone had silenced him, in a way that only she knew how to do.

If it were any other, he would have brushed aside their wants, their frivolous desires that they claimed as the truth. If it were another, he wouldn’t have been invested at all. He would have settled the matter privately, with a visit from one of his followers, and an unfortunate passing in the night; the child slipping from the world before it was allowed to bloom. He had no want of a child, no need for an heir, in the face of life forever.

“ _Are you sure_?” he’d asked her, faltering as she laid his hand on her cheek.

“ _Please, Tom_.”

He’d been lost then, to her.

Tom had held her hand through it, his face gaunt as he watched her labor. He wouldn't say that he was afraid for her, it was beyond reason - yet he had felt a cold shiver when she screamed and pushed their little one free.

She’d been a hideous, terrible thing.

“ _Lovely_ ,” Hermione had whispered, regarding their daughter - theirs, Tom realized, she was theirs with her mop of dark curls, and her horrid crying - as if she were a sacred, _precious_ thing. She had nothing animal-like about her, unlike the curse that affected her mother. His fingers loosened about hers, letting her hold the child close. “ _She’s p-perfect_ ,” she’d been breathless and purring, a beautiful sound coming from her, “ _isn’t she, Tom? Perfect in a way that neither of us will ever be._ ”

" _She is_ ," he agreed, his voice low as if to conceal the tenderness in it. As if he could hide anything from his pet, as her eyes met his, before flitting back to their child. He’d read of animals devouring their offspring; the weak and the strong, the hideous and deformed with their perfect counterpart.

He wondered if he would have stopped her had she tried.

" _I'll keep you safe_ ," Hermione promised, touching her baby's cheek with her pinky finger. Her nails were rounded and painted light pink; Tom having cared for them for her. He had held her hand as if he were holding a quill and gently rotated her wrist so he could paint her nails precisely.

Tom had felt a twist in his stomach then, a surge of barbed feelings rising in the back of his throat. If he were a lesser man, one that was the monster some proclaimed him to be, he would have had the elves take the child away, leaving Hermione to have only him for company. He would be the one at her breast, suckling from her breast, and having her love him without restraint.

~~Love~~.

The very word made him cold, the same as if he'd been doused in cold water. Love was a hideous, horrid thing to him, a weakness that was the same as any affliction. Hate, Tom knew, was effective and precise; driving a man to do what another would not. Love faltered where hate never did and made a person weak where hate strengthened them. Hate wasn't something to cure, but to encourage, while love -

Love hadn’t been enough to have his mother keep him. His grandfather. His uncle.

They had left him to wither in an orphanage, where he’d learned that nothing in life was fair, and things were rarely as good as they should be. Life wasn’t like the stories the children read, where someone kindly and good came to save the heroine. Tom had learned, just as he knew his name, there was never going to be someone waiting at the gates to take him away. There was never going to be a day where he was soothed after scraping his knee or given a pat on the head for learning his letters.

He learned too, that he far preferred the truth to a lie.

He would lie to the others, both at the orphanage and at Hogwarts, but never to himself. “ _You’re the only one you have who cares_ ,” he told himself, wiping ugly, wet globs from his cheeks. “ _You’re the only one in the world who knows your name_.”

If he was cracked over the head and buried like the squirrel one of the children caught, he would be buried beneath a rotting tree, with no sheet to cover him. He would be remembered as Tom, the boy that no one liked, and everyone feared, while his name, Voldemort, rotted on his lips. It was a fear he had, the fear of never being remembered as himself, one that haunted him for years.

One that haunted him still.

‘No,’ Tom thought. 

Love was never enough.

Still, Tom wondered then, what it would have been like to have someone who loved him as a child. Would he have been a supposed pawn for the light, the same as Dumbledore was? The thought of him wearing a red tie in exchange for a green one made him laugh, a half-hearted noise of disbelief. He was no closer to being a Gryffindor than his little pet was Hufflepuff. 

She settled back against the pillows propped behind her and watched as he wrapped his tongue about her nipple. He knew how to latch on to her breast, something he'd taken to while she was pregnant and desperate to nurse.

He'd unhooked her bra and slowly drawn himself to her lap, neither of them speaking, the first time he'd done it. He came to her breast as if he were a worshipper before Merlin, easing her nipple into his mouth. She'd felt the warmth of his tongue, and the tremble in her arms as she cradled him to her.

She'd whimpered when he'd first suckled, his motions not the greed of a child, but of a man. He'd palmed her opposite breast and she'd been distracted by the sting, before gasping as he latched firmly. She felt the flat of his tongue, and greedy, short strokes as he teased milk from her.

He'd had milk travel down his chin by the time he was done, and she knew as all mothers knew when to place her finger against his lip, and she whispered to him that it was enough. “You’re full, darling,” her words were tender and free as she caressed his cheek and swept her thumb across his smooth jaw. “You’ll ache if you have more.”

He'd pulled his lips from her and gazed up at her as a man undone.

She felt her heartbreak at the look in his eyes, the hunger for the tenderness that she draped across his shoulders, and pressed close to him as if he were the same as her child. She would never know how he could have been turned away as if he had been born in the shadow of hate. "Tom," she said, expressing everything she wouldn't name.

She knew better than to show her heart to him, or the weakness in her lungs. He accepted more from her than he did another, but she knew the feelings she had for him would make him falter in fear. She felt blood bubble on her lip, tasting metallic on her tongue. He wouldn’t understand if she told him, she thought, how she could love him instead of hate.

“Do you -“

Both knew, then, that it would never be enough.

"Do you want more?" Hermione asked, her tone hesitant.

She couldn’t deny him, the tug at her insides the same as she felt with their children. She saw the boy he had been, and the man that he was, and knew that she wanted them both to be hers as if she could hold together a man undone. She swallowed tautly.

She couldn’t.

She knew that as she knew her name, yet she clung to the pretty dream, all the same.

"Please," he whispered, and she felt herself clutch him closer, and offer her feeling freely. "Take it," she murmured and felt the curve of his lip against her skin. It felt as if she were opening herself to him, allowing him to feel the beat of her heart, and the falter of her breath as he kissed her breast. “Take all that you want, Tom.”

His eyes closed at the sheer contentment he felt, the ever-burning wrath in his heart quelled in the moments he was with her. He found life in her arms, a life that he’d never had, and felt with his children, or his followers.

_Never with Voldemort_ , his thoughts teased, seeping beneath his skin _, never with Dumbledore_.

He would have hated their children if he could, disregarding the fact that he had bred her. They had a girl, one who would make the world weep from the thoughts in her pretty head, and a son, born soon after, who They had everything that had been denied him; the love that Hermione lavished upon them more than they deserved.

Only, he found his thoughts abating when she placed his daughter in his arms, and the baby had observed him with trusting eyes - eyes the same shade as her mother's, before she yawned and closed her eyes, closing her thoughts from him.

Only, he couldn't speak when his son toddled toward him, and he caught him before he could fall. "Careful," he'd chided the child before kissing his temple, and called a house-elf to watch him.

It was much later that he'd wondered at what he'd done.

Only, he found himself at peace when he was with Hermione, and she treated him as the child he had never been. For a few, sacred moments he felt absolved of the crack in his soul and kept his eyes closed.

"I will," the words came easily from him, the same as a flame drawn across gasoline. It was a sensation that could catch the world aflame, taking them both with, if he wished.

If he desired.

“Now," he murmured his reply, nestling his face against her soft breasts. He could have purred at her fingers combing through his hair and plaited the messiest curls without thought. "And always."

Time meant little to him, beyond the dawn of a new day as he continued to exceed what his father had thought of him. He felt the sting of filthy, muggle spit on his cheek still, from when the man had been unrepentant in the face of their meeting. It was the dream that had taunted him as he grew from a child to a man, the thought of seeing his father once he couldn’t turn from.

He wanted to know the man, the one whose seed had made him, and weakness for supposed love destroying him. It had taken a drop of Amorentia and a lonely woman to make him, Tom thought, and he supposed he should have been grateful to Merope and Tom Sr. for it. His life was like no other’s, his potential held back by little.

Little but the stain of his father’s blood, and the faceless imagery that taunted Tom.

He had no ancestral portraits that lined his residences, no memory of precise handshakes and his father chiding him for low marks, as Abraxas had. Once, Abraxas had shown him the scars he’d suffered from his father, the man having broken his cane against his thighs and his back for disobeying him. “ _I thought I could dream,”_ the Malfoy heir had told him as if they were friends, " _of life with a filthy muggle-born that lived a hair's breadth away from the estate. I became enamored with her, I suppose_.”

Malfoy had laughed then, with Tom following suit; one at the folly of desiring a muggle-born, while the other, at the thought he envied the other for their scars.

Tom had nothing from his mother, nor from his father, beyond the name they had given him, and the blood that flowed through his veins. He had little else from them, besides the eyes of his father, as he learned when they met face to face.

Tom had never expected an invitation to his home, nor acknowledgment of the shared blood that flowed in their veins. His father considered him a mistake as if his magical abilities hadn't rendered him a superior example of their species.

No, his father had turned away, no less than Tom had expected -

Yet it had hurt, all the same, the knife twisting in a place he thought was long lost and stilled from beating.

His pet twisted in his arms, so she was able to turn her head back towards him. She regarded him with warm, caramel-colored eyes that were unflinching in the light. She was unmoving in the face of the truth, his earnest pet, his little, brave girl. "You're serious, aren't you?"

He traced the seam of his lips with his tongue, before tilting his head up toward her. "Quite."

It was a disturbing sensation, the same as acid pooling beneath his skin when he realized nothing would be the _same_ without her. Unnervingly, she’d made the house they lived in a home, with her love for muggle records and the books that she left scattered on every surface. He knew the sound of her soft footsteps and her quiet laughter that lingered behind her. It was the fact he longed for the sound - the sound of her - that struck him, as he’d always preferred the silence when he was in residence.

When it came to her, he disliked it.

Despised it, even, aside from when she had her head on his chest and slept while he sorted through the letters he’d received. She had taken to taking cat naps, a fitting tribute to her nature. He often rested his free hand on the swell of her stomach, or the curve of her thigh, feeling how she twitched beneath his touch. It was the same when he wrapped her tail about his hand, or stroked her ears with gentle pets, chasing the memories that haunted her away.

There were things he could never change, the past amongst them.

Yet there was a plethora - a world - of things he could chase away, if not change. “ _I take care of my things_ ,” he’d whispered to her, “ _The same as I keep my word_. _Always_.”

It was little believed about him, something his followers should have taken care to remember about him. He was the same in school, having long punished Nott for being the worst of those who persecuted him before his bloodline had been discovered. The foolish man had never learned from it, priding himself on the fact that he was a Knight still as if that was protection enough.

He’d tapped his sleeping pet’s nose. “ _If only his name was Hermione_.”

The elves had taken to her in a way they never had to him, eager to follow her wishes, though they'd drawn the line at her clothing them. She'd told him, once, that they saw past her animal features, and treated her as if she were deserving of life. (He'd gleaned from her memories of the children that had chased her in the alleyways after she'd lost her wand and had been approaching her heat. They'd cornered her, pulling at her ears and yanking at her tail, before she'd dissolved into furious tears, and lashed out at them in her rage. It was a lesson she'd never forgotten; becoming wary of others, and traveling at dusk - the only reason he'd found her collapsed in the alley was her heat had come unexpectedly, and she'd been helpless to prevent it.)

She'd learned his tastes more than he had his own and brought her attention to every room. She had no taste for decorating, she'd said, yet brought her light to the space, carving it out as _their_ home. He’d made a space for her in his closet, as much as he admired her without clothes, and he’d found she’d placed a toothbrush beside his.

Where would she go, when she wore his collar the same as she bore his mark? He'd branded her as his own, attentive to her where he disregarded the others. She’d burned in sweet ecstasy when he’d drawn his name on her forearm, his own dark mark for her.

“ _Worship your lord, Hermione_.”

She slept beside him, the nights she'd spent in the kennel beside his four-poster bed keeping them both without sleep. She'd pawed at the mattress and rolled in the blankets, before whining and stuffed a pillow between her legs. He'd watched her before he'd whistled lowly, and she'd crawled to his bedside, as naked as she was born.

He'd cuffed her pretty cheek, and she'd reared back, her pretty eyes wide. " _W-why_?"

He’d wanted her to hurt. 

" _Your pleasure comes from me, silly girl_ ,” he'd crooned, cradling her reddened cheek in his hand. " _Disobedient pets have to learn_."

He'd turned his back on her then, before finding her in the morning; slumped against his nightstand with drool trickling down her chin. He'd crouched beside her and awakened her gently, kissing her until he'd taken her breath away.

" _O-Oh, please_ -"

He'd drawn her head up to his thigh and tangled his fingers in her curls. " _Please me, pet, and I'll allow you a release tonight."_

She'd mouthed his erection through his boxers, licking and kissing his straining shaft until he bucked his hips against her, and groaned her name. “Hermione,” he tasted it on his tongue, each letter fizzling sugary pop rocks. “Hermione -“

She was sin incarnate, he knew, and he wanted to bury himself inside her.

She tipped her head upward, watching him from under her lashes. He looked enraptured, she thought, the silly man - she liked the taste of him on her tongue and the way he trembled against her as if he were a kit. She'd done this before, when she had been desperate in her heat and he'd given her what she needed, stroking her curls and whispering filthy things into her ear. Things that made her want to melt in his embrace, as he unwound her worries for her and pulled her closer to him as if she were truly feline, and he held a wiggling fish on a string.

He'd vanished his boxers at the last moment, his release spraying over her flushed cheeks, and pretty lips, and the show of her neck that he loved.

He'd called for a house-elf after, one that appeared with a crack, and asked for a warm cloth.

The house-elf had brought it to him without question, ignoring the quivering mess that kneeled before him, and rested her cheek against his thigh. She'd tasted himself on her, her tongue tracing the dripping curve of her lips.

" _Tom_ ," she'd whispered as he drew the cloth over her face, and down to her neck, and her breasts. He'd cleaned her as gently as if she were his lover and had kissed her temple after.

" _Tonight, sweet one_ ," he'd promised before he'd started his day.

That night she rode his hand until she screamed his name and slouched against his bare chest. He allowed her to sleep beside him, shushing her when she'd fretted that he was going to punish her after.

" _Fear me_ ," he murmured, resting his fingers on the nape of her neck, " _love me, and I will be your slave, Hermione_."

She was struck then, by how reverently he whispered her name.

As the days turned to weeks and weeks into months, she found that she didn't want to leave.

Not when she slept in his bed and allowed him to dress her, and pleasure her without question. He brought her to a writhing mess with his hands, and with his mouth, and he said she keened his name beautifully when he buried his throbbing cock inside her.

Later still, she'd accepted his mark as she did his collar, and stood beside him when he murdered his father. He told her of his plans for the world, and what he did in the hours he spent away from her, in the sunlight. She missed him, she said and found that she meant the words she said.

And when he said that he missed her in turn, she believed him still. " _What we have is real_ ," he told her, before drawing bruising kisses along her collarbone. " _And like no other, pet_."

She knew he was certain in his feeling when he brought a man before her and made her life with him forever.

He'd groomed her tenderly, licking crimson from her trembling fingers. She'd been in shock from murdering the man in splattering, messy blood before he'd drawn her into his arms and allowed her to weep against his shoulder. She had a rage of possibility within her, yet lacked the stamina as he did, the relentless drive to abandon his morals for the sake of power over his own life. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised her, meaning every word he said.

He would make the choices she couldn’t, and face everything that she cringed, in her stead, as he eased her into the grey. Nothing, he knew, in life was black or white. Life was an array of grey, no choice without consequence, or thought without meaning. He brushed aside morals the same as his mock-savior, Dumbledore, reveled in them. He wasn’t the one who allowed children to be abused, Tom mused, yet Dumbledore, the rising leader of the light was.

No, his pet wouldn't be exposed to Dumbledore's kind or his supposed Order. The thought made Tom sneer, the same as he had when Hermione had asked to bury the man they'd murdered. He'd thought the idea absurd, though she'd begged him so prettily, with tears in her eyes that glittered as if they were falling diamonds. He'd relented, and they'd buried the man on the outskirts of the Malfoy property, one of the great estates he had a portkey to. He’d told Abraxas once, that he prized his privacy above any other mortal thing.

“ _You may think me a monster, Abraxas_ ,” Tom had teased, ignoring the man’s stuttering. “ _But we are the same in the night, if not in the day_.”

The gauche fool had thought he’d referred to fucking, bathing in the flesh of another, and not in the blood of his father. Tom laughed still at the absurdity of it all - laughing the hardest when he thought of the squib buried near the twisted Malfoy seat.

They’d made love, there, in the tamed forest while dawn came.

He’d been the same as her then, his beast allowed out to play, while she was as exposed as he was. Dirt had streaked down their skin, though it couldn’t hide them as the sun came. No, nothing could hide them as they reveled in another; her hands grasping his curls and pulling him closer, while he dragged his canines across her throat. He wanted her, needed her, at that moment as he never had another.

And she wanted - needed - him as no one ever had.

" _The world won't take you from me_ ," he'd crooned. " _Nothing - no one - will_."

He knew that nothing in him would push her away, as he kept his hand entwined in hers. Nothing would part them, nothing would matter in the light of another, as he apparated with her in his arms and his cock inside her. " _Tom_ ,” she’d cried, “ ** _Tom_**.”

Her heart was filled with him, and only him.

He hadn't thought that would change when he bred her.

Truthfully, he’d given little thought to it, beyond their intention to fuck. They’d been lost in another, and the feel of each other; mating as if they were filthy animals together. He’d pushed her and teased her, and made her break beneath his touch, while she’d made him tell her things he’d told no other. With everything she had, she’d invited him in, and he’d found himself drawn to her heart like a moth to a flame.

He'd reveled in her reactions, and her cries and mapped her body with his touch. He'd learned what made her crest and writhe against him, crying that she couldn't take anymore, as he drew her to release. He never let her go, never let her remain satisfied before he'd drawn her to him again, and they'd both been breathless at the fire between them. It was one that would consume them, burning away their names and their hearts, until they were made one.

It was everything, and more.

And so, he’d found himself lacking when she’d gently chided the elves for hovering and insisted on caring for their daughter herself. Yet, she'd let him know there was room for him too when she invited him to stay with her. 

“I won’t leave you,” Hermione told him, words he’d never believed from anyone else before. “Neither will she.”

Or their son, who had pulled at his father’s curls, and giggled when he winced. He was fascinated by his familiar, Nagini, and trustingly slept against her flank when she crept into his crib. Tom had little need to demand she treat his children gently - his daughter had eagerly slobbered on her, and petted her head, while his son clapped his hands together when the snake wound about his legs. Nagini had been found when the family had picnicked in the gardens, and common, garter snakes had come in droves to the children and had violently struck at them until Tom had silenced her. 

It was strange, Tom knew, deliriously strange to have a _family_. 

He wanted to keep them within his reach, already having arranged tutors from overseas to come to their home. There would be no Hogwarts for his children, no influence from Dumbledore or the Order as they aged. He wanted them to stand beside them, once they shed their trembling legs, and became fitting for the blood that flowed through their veins.

All because of the woman beneath him, the one who knew his daydreams, the same as she knew his dark desires. He wasn't entirely a man, nor a monster, and she knew that he needed her to appeal to both. She loved him yet she knew when she writhed from his touch and cried out his name in front of his followers that he expected it from her.

He _craved_ it from her.

She was his weakness, the one he faltered when it came to, and she allowed herself to be hidden from the others. They wouldn’t understand her, he told her, the same as they mistook him. They would treat her as a deity, while looking for the human inside, one they could tear between their claws. They were more than that - more than them - and had no need for another.

Though she clung to their children, something he'd attributed to her animal nature. She groomed them and adored them, cherishing their son the same as she had their daughter. He soon knew that when he heard the pitter-patter of their footsteps, she would be with them, their small hands tucked in hers.

He’d watched her when she read to their children, welcoming them into her lap while she read the Tales of Beedle the Bard to them, and the sound of her purring lulled them to sleep. It was then that she would look to the doorway, where she knew he waited, and stretch her hand out towards him. “ _Come here, Tom,”_ she'd whisper, and he'd come to her side as if she could change his nature as if she could make him love. 

He’d cradle their son to him, moving him to his crib, while she moved their daughter to her bed. He would take Hermione to bed after, lavishing her body with kisses and nips, while she clutched him closer still. She welcomed him in and came with his name on her lips.

“ _Tom - oh! Tom!_ ”

His tender girl, his wonderful fool. He couldn’t get enough of her.

He too was a fool, as he cruelly smiled at the thought of the world hurting her. It was more than he would allow, as he graced her forearm with his hand, and traced the splash of freckles there. And it was less than he wanted, less than he dreamed of, for her. He wouldn’t allow it.

He looked up toward her, her eyes meeting his. “Sometimes,” Tom said, “I fear you more than I fear myself, Hermione.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
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> Beta'd by Simon, Luna, and Stan, thank you! 🦝🖤


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little AU for Lavinia, Lavinia - what if Tom and Hermione met under different circumstances?
> 
> More non-con than the first chapter, and contains sensitive material (the implied child abuse tag applies only to chapter two, in reference to Tom's childhood), though a little fluff made an appearance. It's still a dead-dove do not eat chapter, so please be aware! I never want to make anyone uncomfortable. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, it truly means so much to me! 🦝🖤

Tom knew that everyone and everything had a price. The wizarding world might cling to their morals, yet they were the same as filthy muggles when it came to acquisition.

And Tom was the filthiest one of them all.

When he'd seen his pet in the window of a dingy store amidst Diagon Alley, he'd known that she was meant to be his. It was the same sense of belonging, the same _rightness_ , he'd felt when he'd held Nagini for the first time, allowing her to slither about his shoulders, and wind herself around his neck. He'd felt the weight of her then, and the trust between them that she wouldn't wind herself until he lost breath, the same as she knew he wouldn't draw his wand on her.

Tom had always taken care of his belongings, since the time he was a boy and hid books under his mattress at the orphanage. No one else appreciated them as he did, and he'd found his books soaked in milk when he left them in the garden, with their covers torn and seams broken.

He'd fractured the girl's arm who'd done it, though it was a lesson he had never forgotten, not even at Hogwarts.

Especially, not there.

Snakes coiled and curled about things they wanted, gorging themselves on petty jealousies and wrathful feelings born from wonder. There was no acceptance of lost boys like he'd been, ones without revered last name, without a familial home soaked in heritage. He'd shed his skin, and become what they wanted until his heirdom had been discovered.

He’d made the snakes his own, then, forcing them to writhe about his feet.

He watched the girl in the window, as she lay on her side, amidst a pile of worn blankets, and her hand lingered between her thighs. Her pretty pink lips were open as she panted, and her whiskey-colored eyes were unfocused as if she were consumed by her need for pleasure.

He had little doubt that she'd been drugged into complacency, seeing the red chafe marks about her wrists and the bruising along her ribs.

He pressed his hand against the glass, his fingers spreading as if he were a boy lusting after a broom on display still. He had forced Abraxas into buying him a broom once, one that was heavily charmed, and swore that it was faster than on the market.

When a poor Ravenclaw had beaten him on their handed down broom, he'd given his own away to a half-blood in Slytherin. Abraxas had stammered and turned white at the sight, the rest of their house knowing he thought that Tom would give the broom to him.

Only Tom hadn't, and the matter had been left there.

He’d always known that Abraxas was too afraid to take what he wanted, as snide as he might be about bending the knee to his Dark Lord.

“You’re more than a silly fool, aren’t you?”

He traced her little frame, from the curl of her feet to the rise and fall of her chest, and the swelling of her lower lip. The skin was torn there as if she'd pulled it back with her teeth. His gaze settled on her neck, as he longed to whisper the words, and transfigure a collar for her; one that held the crest of the Marvolo family.

When she was his, she would have everything.

He traced his fingertips against the glass, leaving smudges in his wake. How many had seen her there, panting, and in heat? How many had wanted her prostrate on her knees, and forced their way with her? He had little desire to lie to himself, for he was honest, in all things when it came to his own thoughts.

He was the same as the others, yet worse than any of them could imagine.

Their thoughts held no candle to his, as he thought of her then, naked and on her hands and knees next to his throne. He would have her attend to him during the revelries, as she wore his collar on her neck and his mark on her forearm. He would give her everything that she wanted, everything that she desired if she would give him her soul from her own free will.

He would not Imperio her, the bending of her will all the sweeter when he broke her.

Tom chuckled as he saw a novel near her small foot.

_Great Expectations_.

"The world is a cruel place," Tom said gently, feeling her gaze rest on him. "Especially to beasts like you and me, little one."

As if she heard him, the pretty pet closed her eyes and whimpered. She rocked her hips against her palm, and Tom could see rivets of cum dripping from her thighs.

How long had it been since she'd been well and truly fucked?

He knew what she wanted - what she needed, and what he could provide her with if he wished. He found himself hardening at the thought, as if he were a schoolboy again, pulling a silly girl into a broom closet. They’d been eager for his fumbling’s, and his harsh kisses, never knowing that he was using them as much as they were using him in turn.

He made his decision then, as he found in his thoughts she had struggled to her knees and crawled to the other side of the glass. Her hand mimicked his, her fingers spread as his were, only the glass pane between them.

Her other hand was buried between her thighs still, desperately fingering herself. She swayed as her breasts pressed against the glass, and his gaze flickered downward, to her perked nipples, and the curve of her breasts; ones that would fit in his palm well, and her nipples in his mouth. Milk streaked down her abdomen, in thin, opaque streams.

“Poor thing,” Tom murmured, his gaze returning to hers.

She blinked rapidly, her pretty eyes holding his.

_Help me, please._

* * *

The door to the shop opened, a bell ringing overhead.

The shop held countless ones like her, pets that were forced into heats, and crammed together; all waiting for their owners. The shopkeeper chuckled as he slid the paperwork across the counter to him, “Feisty one, she is. She bit the last man who tried her,” his upper lip curled into a mocking sneer. “He left with one _less_ appendage.”

“She’ll do well with me,” Tom said simply.

He’d tamed Bellatrix well, grinding her beneath his heel before returning her to her husband.

He flicked through the paperwork, amused at the fact his pet had been toying with things she shouldn’t. A Polyjuice incident had made her what she was, Snatchers having found her alone, and helpless in an alley.

He could teach her so many, wonderous things.

* * *

He’d fucked her there, in the filthy, hopeless room.

It’d been easy enough to roll her on to her back and take her trembling hand in his. “I will help you,” Tom murmured, her bleary eyes struggling to meet his. Whines had slipped from her lips, sweet, and pure in her helpless cries. “Hermione.”

He’d unbuckled his pants, and proceeded to take her as if she'd always been his.

She’d been a writhing, pleasing mess beneath him as the room filled with the sound of flesh meeting flesh. She was so, so small compared to him; her arms scrambling to tangle about his neck. It was something he hadn’t allowed Bellatrix, as he’d made the woman kneel, and entered her from the back, and taught her that she was a conduit for his pleasure.

His pet too, was a tool, one connecting both of them.

He felt as she trembled while he was inside of her, his cock making her soaking cunt his home. She was nearly untouched, as she responded, her thighs squeezing about his, and she suckled his neck.

She needed him -

She needed this, as he felt ecstasy rush through her veins.

Her fingers had been nothing compared to the feel of him, as he forced himself deeper, and moved to wrap her legs about his waist. He took her deeper, rougher, as he rolled his hips against hers and ground his cock inside of her. She was wet and willing, bucking her hips against his as if she never wanted to let him go.

She clung to him, the only one that she wanted, the only one that she needed.

She dragged her teeth against his skin, making him his before she suckled it again. She was tenderness and she was fire, desire burning in her shaking body. He would use and abuse her, yet she coaxed him in deeper as if she wanted him there as if she needed him there -

“Please,” she keened.

He felt her breasts against his chest and milk as it dripped against his skin. He knew, later, he would seat her on his lap and suckle from her, as if he were a kit and she, his mother, something he'd never had before. Yet at the moment -

He wanted nothing more than for her to shatter about him, with his name on her lips, and his heart welcoming the feel of him, as he imprinted himself on her.

And he’d let her press him nearer still, as she pressed her face against his chest. 

“Tom,” he’d choked, his cock buried inside her. “Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

She would learn to scream his name.

They rocked together, their bodies entangled, and their pleasure one. He came inside her as she keened and raked her nails down his forearms. She would mark him the same as he would mark her, and he allowed it; the angry, red marks burned into his pale skin. Cum dripped from her as she, too, came in tandem with him; their release spilling beneath her, and he held her still.

“Tom,” she exhaled.

“Hermione,” he murmured, knowing then, that he would allow her a great many things.

* * *

Afterward, he murmured a _Scourgify_ on both of them, before gathering her against him.

“Where?” Hermione whispered.

“Home.”

He would Apparate them to the flat he had above Borgin and Burkes, where they would be undisturbed by the outside world, for as long as he wished. No one would know of her there, the shopkeeper obliviated after Tom had signed the papers.

_Abraxas Malfoy_.

She weighed nearly nothing in his arms, and he pressed his cheek against her temple.

The smell of arousal clung to her as if he wouldn't know from the wetness against his clothed thigh alone. Yet there was a streak of vanilla there too, and fresh roses in bloom, as if she had been made for him.

Perhaps, Tom thought, she had.

He’d taken no one else after Bellatrix, having more than fucking to occupy him. Bellatrix had been a momentary distraction, someone he had coaxed into embracing her need for submissiveness, and her husband had been glad for it. It had meant little to Tom to remake her in the image of submissiveness, knowing that her madness was only a hairsbreadth away, in a place only he could open if he wished.

She would make a pretty follower, one dancing on a thin line of sanity.

She was only one plan he had, one plan that he had fulfilled and thoroughly dismissed. He had many plans, among them his intention to visit Albania, for a precious _sight-seeing_ trip as Avery put it. Yet the little bird in the window, the one he held then, had distracted him from it, the moments he’d spent with her ones that hadn’t been in his thoughts, in his plans.

Tom tilted his head back, a sigh escaping him.

He hoped that she Apparated well, though, if she didn’t it hardly mattered.

Hermione would see the world as he wished it, through the bars of the cage he would make her, and one that she would cling to. Tom knew that people did a great many things for safety, snakes among them. There was no one that Tom feared, not even the mighty Dumbledore, as Hogwarts was beginning to consider him. Tom feared death alone, and soon - he would have not even death to fear, only the face of himself.

Hermione would learn that truth from him, the same as she would countless others.

“Perhaps you’ll be the only one who knows me,” he mused, feeling her heartbeat against his. “The only one who sees me, little bird, if I allow you in.”

He wondered if she would like what she saw if it would scare her -

Her fingers wrapped about his wrist.

“Tom,” she whispered, and he knew that he was damned.

He felt the weight of the vial the shopkeeper had given him and laughed.

He had little use for poorly made potions or experimental drugs taken from filthy muggle companies, ones that would induce her to heat as if she were a stray bitch. Countless spells could be used in their stead, ones that would bind her to him, and make her ache and cry for the previous drugs to course through her system. Her wings would fall, her feathers abandoned when she was in his arms, and she would thank him for it.

"You aren't like the rest, are you?" Tom murmured as he stroked her cheek and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. She was warm in his arms, chasing the cold of his leaden soul away. "You'll be a lovely pet for me, Hermione." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just write another AU for Lavinia, Lavinia?
> 
> Yes, I did - 
> 
> Though this is more of a smutty one-shot than anything. :) Thank you for reading, I hope that you like it! I've recently revamped my portfolio, and made a new website to showcase it: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren - I'm excited to share it with you all! 🖤

Tom felt as his pet began to groom him, taking his hand in her smaller one. She always began with his fingers, as she was reassuring him that she knew of the hurt they’d inflicted and accepted them still.

Accepted _him_.

It was a silly thought, a sillier action still, yet he allowed her to lick at his fingertips. He stayed still beside her, his breathing even, as he knew she thought he was asleep still.

How odd, he thought, it felt to have one devoted.

She eased his index finger into her mouth, her canines lightly pricking his skin. He felt the warmth of her tongue as she lapped at the droplets of blood she'd caused before she mewled at the taste of him. She liked his scent he knew, as she tasted their entangled pheromones, of bitter spice and sweet undertones.

He felt himself harden as she added his forefinger and made content suckling noises as she wet his fingers. His rooms were impenetrably warded, yet he knew the same as he knew his name, if someone had intruded upon the scene, he would have killed them. She was his -

His Hermione, who pleasured him well.

She released his fingers and kissed his knuckles sweetly before moving to his other hand. Her lips were soft against his skin, and the coolness of her breath made him shiver, as she eased his pinky into her mouth. Her touch was slow and wanting, never harsh, yet he knew how demanding she could be. He'd lain with her for four of her heats and kept her well-fucked outside of them, as their nursery full of heirs attested to.

She bred as well as her owner had promised, though as Hermione had kneeled before him, with fire in her eyes and a scowl on her lips, Tom knew that she was more than had been promised. As the High Lord of the wizarding world, countless pureblooded women who'd wanted him, as well as their counterpart - yet he'd been drawn to the warlock's offering of a little, lost lion who had entered the wrong territory. As was his right, the warlock brought her to heel and thought she'd make a fine offering for his Lord.

Tom had felt something stir as he cupped his hand beneath her chin and asked her name.

She’d said nothing, her teeth sinking into her lip as he drew her into his lap. The warlock had backed away with his head down, while his court closed in, closer, and closer to see his pretty pet. He’d taken her there, on his throne as he’d slipped his fingers between her thighs and plunged them into her slick cunt. He’d watched as she faced him, their gazes only on each other; as she rocked herself against his hand, and made sweet, mewling gasps.

It hadn’t been enough -

Not when she’d crested and he felt her cunt clench about his fingers, and she stifled her moans. “None of that,” he’d murmured, before kissing her lips harshly. She’d tasted as sweet as any forbidden fruit, and his tongue had clashed with her own. She’d keened when he replaced his fingers with his cock, taking her there, regardless of his watching followers.

He’d never wanted anything as much as her before.

And he wanted her still, he thought, as he felt her slink beneath the sheets. Her curls tickled his skin as she moved, the sheets just above her bare shoulders. She laid her cheek against his thigh, and her tongue darted out, tracing the tip of his member.

_Gods…_

His breath caught in his throat as he felt the curve of her smile against his thigh.

Her mouth was his favorite part of her, from how she teased him with her words, to how beautifully she took him inside. She ran her tongue over his throbbing length, her tongue wet and warm against his skin. She knew every ridge left from an old scar and the single mole on the dip of his hips. She had kissed all of him, brushing her lips across his skin as if she could make her adoration sink within, and cherish his tarnished soul.

Slowly, she drew his tip into her mouth and eased his bulging shaft in too. She could never take all of him, though her firm hand on the rest of his length, and her other hand that cradled his sac was enough to make him groan.

Her tongue drew across his length, coating it thickly as she began suckling. She licked and sucked like the kitten that she was, her fluffy tail curled about his wrist. It held him back from burying his hand in her curls, and he fisted the sheets with the other. His breath was shallow as she teased him, lightly drawing her teeth against his shaft, just enough for him to feel her there.

He bucked his hips against her greedy mouth, unable to help himself as she eased him deeper. She hummed in reply, a greedy purr that would have made him smirk, had he not been fixated on the feel of her fucking him. She had learned from his teasing, countless nights spent between them with his head buried between her legs. He’d bring her to the peak of delight, before tweaking her nipple and demanding that she not cum, until he allowed her to.

It was a euphoria that she loved and made him moan at the thought. He loved when her cheeks flushed and her eyes became blurry and unfocused, as she begged him so sweetly to allow her release. Or when she grasped his shoulders until her nails broke through his skin, and she rode his cock as if he would ever demand that she stop. She adored him, the same as a flower turning toward the sun, and he was devoted to her in turn.

More than any of his followers would ever know.

They had learned to respect her, as he'd had Dolohov dragged before them, while Hermione was situated in his lap, and he'd grasped him by the hair and forced him to please his pet with his mouth. She'd thrashed against him as he licked her, and Tom had thrust his cock inside her at the same time. The sight of their fornicating had silenced his followers, as he felt the air thicken with their want and envy.

He hadn’t allowed Dolohov to fuck her again, instead, allowing him to retain the memory still. All his followers knew he had no liking to share, as he kept his pet by his side, and their children in their own wing. Their rooms were severely warded, keeping the world away, as Tom reveled in his pet.

His family.

He groaned her name as he felt his sac constrict, and pleasure flooded his veins. He had fucked others before, taken ones during drugged revelries, and others, ones who came willingly to his bed, and allowed him to do as he wished. Yet Hermione -

She made him feel things for her, as he came to treat her body with worshipful devotion, and he came to know her body as well as he knew his own. He knew every sigh and whimper, the way she nibbled on her bottom lip, maddeningly so, and held him closer still to her, with her legs wrapped about his.

There was no one like her, there would never be another like her.

His release caught him by surprise, as he arched his back and pressed himself against her mouth. “So, fucking _good_ ,” he groaned. “So good, little one -“

His release came in a sticky flood, one that she accepted as if it were his gift to her. She swallowed his release, her tongue lapping at his quivering shaft, and he felt her fingers fondle his member, urging more from him. His toes dug against the bed, as her greediness deepened.

“Little one,” he warned, yet she paid little mind to him.

He gave her all he had to give, his head falling against the pillow as she lavished his member with her sweeping tongue - her greedy mouth - her touch alone making him shudder. He wanted to keep her there, between his legs, forever, if he could. It was her place beneath him, her place beside him.

He would always have her there.

She groomed him as if he were her own, washing the cum from his member with her tongue. Her strokes were long and languid as if she wanted nothing more than to please him. He felt trickles of cum pump from his cock still, the feeling making him moan.

It was everything he wanted to feel and _more_.

She’d let him cum on her face more than once, letting him spurt his release over her beautiful features, and watched as it dripped down her chin to her neck, and her chest. It was filthy, a sight that was imprinted on his skin for him never to forget.

“Lovely,” he murmured, using a tone with her that he had never used toward another. She had changed him, worming her way between his ribs and twisted around his lungs until he couldn’t get her out. Nor did he want to, as he felt her head bob against him, and her cheeks hollowed. She knew what he wanted, what he needed -

And she gave it to him, as no one else ever had.

He crooned his affection for her in parseltongue, his shaky breath settling as she released her hands from him. No one would ever know her touch - ever know the feel of her lips on his cock, as she let his member pop from her mouth, and she kissed his tip gently.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice low as he dragged her up to him. They were both nude, a sheen of sweat clinging to his chest as she snuggled against him. He kissed her fully on the lips, disregarding the bitter taste of his release, as he enjoyed the sweetness of her.

His adored pet.

His beloved Lady, as the engraved collar around her neck, declared.

“Hermione,” he said, licking the seam of her drenched lips. He felt his heartbeat in his chest and knew that it beat for her. “I love you, without end.”

She cupped his jaw in her hand and smiled. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
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> Beta'd by Soup and Grammarly! 🦝🖤


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